Beneath a thin carpet, the concrete floor had no give as my face crashed against it once again. Rolling over quickly to meet his attack, I managed to bring my knee into the space between us as his massive body covered mine. This maneuver bought me all of two seconds as he simply readjusted, wrapped up my flailing arms, and violently shoved my face back into the carpet. Now, fully at his mercy, my arms and legs were contorted into a position I never predicted possible as a sharp wave of pain shocked my entire body.
Uncle.
Not once. Not twice. Not even after three or four times had I enough sense to submit. Five times I went back for more. And five times my small, untrained body served as but a rag doll for this 300-pound marine. My pride throbbed with the swelling pain of defeat. Pain stronger than any rug burn or bruise my body had endured. Pride had driven me to do what no one else in the room had dared. Pride not only had driven me to do the impossible, but the plain stupid. Pride made me go back for more.
There are days when I long for North Carolina. I long to walk campus again under low, arching branches of trees far more experienced in this world than I. Trees that have weathered the strongest of storms and the most perfect spring day. Trees, strong and firm, that have provided for generations of inhabitants. They give shelter, nourishment, and cover from the hot, summer sun. Yet, without the provision of another source, these trees would not be the strong, dependable giants they are today.
For tonight, I love Africa. Walking home from a birthday party with dear friends, we discovered a small shop just outside the medina. While they scoured the store for tablecloths, I was quickly drawn into conversation with the shopkeeper. A rare moment of putting myself aside, I took interest in who he was. Within five minutes, I sat on my friend’s chair, behind his cash register, drinking the tea he had prepared for himself. We talked about his life and family as I enjoyed a moment of victory.
Not every day here is good. But not every day is bad. I just have to keep going back for more. But it’s different now. The prideful ambition that embarrassed me years ago is becoming less of the driving force. Perhaps, God is leading me to discover a new kind of ambition. An ambition fueled by love for others. A holy ambition.
Through the storms and spring days alike, I am learning every day that I must put myself aside. I long to soak up all the living water I can to stand through the ages. I long to be strong and firmly rooted. I long to provide for those in need. I suppose I long to be a tree.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I Walk the City Streets Alone
Some days I walk the city streets alone. Step by step I learn to release my insecurity and need for companionship. Enjoying the fresh air, I take my solitude in stride. And on days like this, it is a shorter stride. For once, I can relax. There is no one to see and nothing pressing that requires my attention.
I think about where I am. The very place I never thought I would reach. Vibrant and new, the sights, people, and customs. A world that I understand about as well as I understood the television that at one time provided all these sights straight to my home. With my shallow understanding, I could press the power button, turn up the volume, and enjoy. A simple scratch on the surface, these pictures and sounds gave insight into a whole other world. Never before was there a need to understand the inner workings of how the flashes of light and soundbites all worked together to bring me entertainment. From the safety of my armchair, there was never a need to understand how or why the people here do things the way they do, it was enough to know that they were different.
In college, my car broke down one February. I read and read about what to do and how to do it. Within a week I had gathered all the necessary tools and new parts. I spent an entire day taking apart the section of my engine that housed the alternator. After carefully setting the new alternator and returning all the belts to their proper places, I happily drove my car around town. If I had been given a brand new mustang like the rich kid in the next dorm over, my satisfaction could not have compared. I didn't want a new car. I only wanted to drive my little white '97 hundai elantra with the large dent above the rear passenger side tire and damaged front bumper with the remaining paint smear from a blue pickup truck. Despite the limited miles that remained, it ran now because I had used my own hands to fix it.
I used to think that if I read a book, or a couple books, I could figure anything out. If I could just google something, I would be the expert. As I walk the city streets alone, I realize that not everything is that simple. If I had, for one moment, opened my eyes, I could have deduced that I really didn't understand how the electrical current flowed into the television to create light that was ordered in such a way as to carry information to the neurons in my brain.
It is easy to make rash judgments about surface level understanding, but real, objective knowledge is elusive. Knowledge requires time. The feeling of accomplishment I enjoyed driving around town lasted all but a week before I discovered my error by means of another broken alternator. They tell me there is a breaking point coming. This is the rock bottom of culture shock. Yet what if brokenness comes, but knowledge and understanding don't?
And why am I continually handed the excuse of culture shock? There is other knowledge in this world that seems equally elusive to me. Similar to cultural understanding, love has evaded me as well. Sometimes I can't help but wonder what I'm doing with my life. Did I miss a step somewhere along the way? Did I miss the memo senior year when my friends moved off campus to acclimate to real life while I dove deeper into the freshman bubble of Dorm 26? When my friends started getting married, was it wisdom or stubborness that caused me to ignore the fact that there was an alternate gender out there somewhere?
I am here now, so there must be some purpose. Perhaps, I am on the verge. Walking the main boulevard, I envision the next street corner being that proverbial breakthrough. To my right stands a cafe. At the height of the afternoon ciesta, every table is empty. That is, except one. Facing the street sits a tall, olive-skinned man. His arms rest on the table as he leans forward. Eyes waiting expectantly, in like fashion to the beggar I just passed. Eyes that eagerly pine for even a small portion of what could potentially be offered. He gazes into the face hidden to me by a veil.
I don't understand. I have no reference point for the love of which I have only heard. No feelings that tug at me when I see this man's joy. No true concept of what he experiences when he gazes deeply into eyes reserved only for him. For me, to love a woman is equal to culture shock. Perhaps, in time, I will understand love. Perhaps, in time, I will understand this city and these people. Perhaps, this understanding is just around the proverbial corner.
Passing the cafe, I arrive at the street corner for which I had hoped. Standing there, observing what had before been hidden by the cafe, I realize this next street looks no different than the last. I suppose life is the same. From each corner, every street looks the same. Unless I walk the street, I will never know what surprises await. New cafes. New alleys. New friends. Perhaps, something on this street will lead to my breakthrough. Until then, I walk the city streets alone.
I think about where I am. The very place I never thought I would reach. Vibrant and new, the sights, people, and customs. A world that I understand about as well as I understood the television that at one time provided all these sights straight to my home. With my shallow understanding, I could press the power button, turn up the volume, and enjoy. A simple scratch on the surface, these pictures and sounds gave insight into a whole other world. Never before was there a need to understand the inner workings of how the flashes of light and soundbites all worked together to bring me entertainment. From the safety of my armchair, there was never a need to understand how or why the people here do things the way they do, it was enough to know that they were different.
In college, my car broke down one February. I read and read about what to do and how to do it. Within a week I had gathered all the necessary tools and new parts. I spent an entire day taking apart the section of my engine that housed the alternator. After carefully setting the new alternator and returning all the belts to their proper places, I happily drove my car around town. If I had been given a brand new mustang like the rich kid in the next dorm over, my satisfaction could not have compared. I didn't want a new car. I only wanted to drive my little white '97 hundai elantra with the large dent above the rear passenger side tire and damaged front bumper with the remaining paint smear from a blue pickup truck. Despite the limited miles that remained, it ran now because I had used my own hands to fix it.
I used to think that if I read a book, or a couple books, I could figure anything out. If I could just google something, I would be the expert. As I walk the city streets alone, I realize that not everything is that simple. If I had, for one moment, opened my eyes, I could have deduced that I really didn't understand how the electrical current flowed into the television to create light that was ordered in such a way as to carry information to the neurons in my brain.
It is easy to make rash judgments about surface level understanding, but real, objective knowledge is elusive. Knowledge requires time. The feeling of accomplishment I enjoyed driving around town lasted all but a week before I discovered my error by means of another broken alternator. They tell me there is a breaking point coming. This is the rock bottom of culture shock. Yet what if brokenness comes, but knowledge and understanding don't?
And why am I continually handed the excuse of culture shock? There is other knowledge in this world that seems equally elusive to me. Similar to cultural understanding, love has evaded me as well. Sometimes I can't help but wonder what I'm doing with my life. Did I miss a step somewhere along the way? Did I miss the memo senior year when my friends moved off campus to acclimate to real life while I dove deeper into the freshman bubble of Dorm 26? When my friends started getting married, was it wisdom or stubborness that caused me to ignore the fact that there was an alternate gender out there somewhere?
I am here now, so there must be some purpose. Perhaps, I am on the verge. Walking the main boulevard, I envision the next street corner being that proverbial breakthrough. To my right stands a cafe. At the height of the afternoon ciesta, every table is empty. That is, except one. Facing the street sits a tall, olive-skinned man. His arms rest on the table as he leans forward. Eyes waiting expectantly, in like fashion to the beggar I just passed. Eyes that eagerly pine for even a small portion of what could potentially be offered. He gazes into the face hidden to me by a veil.
I don't understand. I have no reference point for the love of which I have only heard. No feelings that tug at me when I see this man's joy. No true concept of what he experiences when he gazes deeply into eyes reserved only for him. For me, to love a woman is equal to culture shock. Perhaps, in time, I will understand love. Perhaps, in time, I will understand this city and these people. Perhaps, this understanding is just around the proverbial corner.
Passing the cafe, I arrive at the street corner for which I had hoped. Standing there, observing what had before been hidden by the cafe, I realize this next street looks no different than the last. I suppose life is the same. From each corner, every street looks the same. Unless I walk the street, I will never know what surprises await. New cafes. New alleys. New friends. Perhaps, something on this street will lead to my breakthrough. Until then, I walk the city streets alone.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Aslan's Pleasure (Revised)
Stripped. Naked. Exposed, all of me, to a staring world. As though born for the purpose of humiliation, I sit in my glass house, shamed. A spectacle disrobed before a race of those heavily clad. These clothe themselves in many layers, concealing parts given to greater honor, effectively hiding shame that befalls all without exception. It is with a perception of freedom that they build, brick upon brick, the wall that ensures independence and solitude.
As war ravages an entire land, so it comes to me. Once free, peaceful, and full, now bearing the quality of emptiness. Void of people, crops, homes and laughter. Void of laughter. Laughter that may never return. All stolen. Hauled off under cover of the night shadows. A land that lies in darkness, empty as the starless night that now consumes it. A land that longs for the peaceful ignorance it once knew.
Denuded and ravaged. This work done by the hand a man cannot know by means of his own devices. A deeper work. More exacting. Aimed at completion. With inhuman precision, the claws dig deep. My chest opens wide, seared not by intense heat, but with an icy cold. The cold spreads through my body like leaven as the last warmth flows from the wound into a puddle around my feet.
With one last breath, a glimmering hope causes me to stare into wild eyes before me. Endless eyes. Eyes that reveal a torrential sea, vast and violent. Lightning flashes. Thrown to and fro, the dreadful power of the storm pushes and pulls at my body threatening to devour me. A brief window of composure permits the sight of approaching land. Land grows larger, more defined, until, at last, I enter a river.
Moving upstream, my body is hurled from rock to rock. The water’s force beats down, pounding me into submission. Onward and upward, a strange force draws me into the unknown. Curiously, I discover my complete lack of pain. I feel nothing despite the brute indifference of the storm. By way of the river, I am taken into what appears to be a garden.
It is here that I first see the sun in this new world. The storm, the rain, the thunder and lightning, and howling wind are gone. Not that they ceased, for something must exist in order to cease. They are no more, as though they never were. As though I simply awoke from a childhood nightmare full of those things I could not consciously conjure in my imagination nor recall upon waking.
Confusion, fear, and panic all subside as a peace unlike any other consumes my body. I bask in the sunshine that illuminates a cloudless sky. The river flows on and on surrounded by rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see. Fruit trees of some kind I have not yet known. Trees scattered in a way wholly unlike the order a man would set an orchard, but ordered still. An order imposed by nature itself or, perhaps, a force greater than nature.
From the water I rise, carried by unseen hands into the center of a small grove of trees. I stand now before a man. Naked and unashamed, his eyes tell me that he has nothing to hide. He seems not to notice the invasion of the garden he tends. Through observation, I find that he is much like me, yet bears a strange, otherworldly quality. I wonder if I am still on earth or, perhaps, in a distant world yet to be tamed.
He is perfect. And complete. There is a glow that exudes from him, not unlike the glory one might envision of Moses coming down from the mountain. Joy. Peace. His eyes turns to a woman entering the small grove. Both naked, their gazes meet in perfect compassion, love, grace, and desire even, if necessary, to fully sacrifice for the other. Their gazes lack the gloss that comes over the eyes of people in my world as they suppress or, worse, conceal lust, greed, and selfishness.
Consciousness streams back. The lion remains, standing before me. New life flows through my veins. Yet the pain continues without mitigation. Slashing. Cutting. I turn and flee in miserable anguish only to find a trail of bloody scales marking the path from which I came. He cuts again. This deeper than the last, revealing, through the layers, a first sight of human flesh.
With the realization that the only true humanness in me has been deeply concealed comes the equally important understanding that I have not yet fully understood humanness. Standing in stark contrast to the man in the garden, my eyes are opened to the horror of what I really am. The dragon that always was. The lion pounces, tearing away more scales with his teeth to reveal a white stomach hidden since the garden. A rehabilitated criminal released from life in an 8x10 cell, I am freed into a new world that I cannot yet comprehend.
Taking my first steps from the cave, I am blinded by the great light hanging in the sky. I stare in wonder at its glory, while vainly grasping for more and more. Enraptured by this beautiful orb, fear invades. Fear that it may not be there tomorrow. I gasp deep breaths of air knowing that just as it is given so it can be taken away. Contrasting the stale, dead air of the cave, this is the air of freedom. Freedom from the shadows they think are reality in the depths of the cave I once called home. The cave I once called truth and beauty and reality. This new experience of true reality informs my soul. Never again will I trust the shadows of the cave.
I stand now before the lion, ready. Ready to learn to endure the pain. Yet, strangely, his eyes betray a smile. Another layer of truth penetrates my understanding as I recognize the deep warmth and love that greet me from the lion's eyes. Perhaps, on this side of eternity, I will never understand, or even experience, the full depths of the way he looks at me. But it is here, in his loving gaze, that I may share his joy. Not the smirk of an enemy pleasuring in my pain. But the smile of a wise father as his teary-eyed son, knees bloodied, falls into his arms. A knowing smile, he is well aware that the pain will make me a man.
He has more work to do. Tomorrow may yet be more painful than today. There are many scales that still remain. Lust of the eyes. Lust of the flesh. Pride of life. Weak and unworthy pleasures that bear empty promises of escape from the pain. Pleasures I formerly loved. Their power utterly confounded at the lion's bidding.
His pleasure is devastating. He is not safe, but he is good.
As war ravages an entire land, so it comes to me. Once free, peaceful, and full, now bearing the quality of emptiness. Void of people, crops, homes and laughter. Void of laughter. Laughter that may never return. All stolen. Hauled off under cover of the night shadows. A land that lies in darkness, empty as the starless night that now consumes it. A land that longs for the peaceful ignorance it once knew.
Denuded and ravaged. This work done by the hand a man cannot know by means of his own devices. A deeper work. More exacting. Aimed at completion. With inhuman precision, the claws dig deep. My chest opens wide, seared not by intense heat, but with an icy cold. The cold spreads through my body like leaven as the last warmth flows from the wound into a puddle around my feet.
With one last breath, a glimmering hope causes me to stare into wild eyes before me. Endless eyes. Eyes that reveal a torrential sea, vast and violent. Lightning flashes. Thrown to and fro, the dreadful power of the storm pushes and pulls at my body threatening to devour me. A brief window of composure permits the sight of approaching land. Land grows larger, more defined, until, at last, I enter a river.
Moving upstream, my body is hurled from rock to rock. The water’s force beats down, pounding me into submission. Onward and upward, a strange force draws me into the unknown. Curiously, I discover my complete lack of pain. I feel nothing despite the brute indifference of the storm. By way of the river, I am taken into what appears to be a garden.
It is here that I first see the sun in this new world. The storm, the rain, the thunder and lightning, and howling wind are gone. Not that they ceased, for something must exist in order to cease. They are no more, as though they never were. As though I simply awoke from a childhood nightmare full of those things I could not consciously conjure in my imagination nor recall upon waking.
Confusion, fear, and panic all subside as a peace unlike any other consumes my body. I bask in the sunshine that illuminates a cloudless sky. The river flows on and on surrounded by rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see. Fruit trees of some kind I have not yet known. Trees scattered in a way wholly unlike the order a man would set an orchard, but ordered still. An order imposed by nature itself or, perhaps, a force greater than nature.
From the water I rise, carried by unseen hands into the center of a small grove of trees. I stand now before a man. Naked and unashamed, his eyes tell me that he has nothing to hide. He seems not to notice the invasion of the garden he tends. Through observation, I find that he is much like me, yet bears a strange, otherworldly quality. I wonder if I am still on earth or, perhaps, in a distant world yet to be tamed.
He is perfect. And complete. There is a glow that exudes from him, not unlike the glory one might envision of Moses coming down from the mountain. Joy. Peace. His eyes turns to a woman entering the small grove. Both naked, their gazes meet in perfect compassion, love, grace, and desire even, if necessary, to fully sacrifice for the other. Their gazes lack the gloss that comes over the eyes of people in my world as they suppress or, worse, conceal lust, greed, and selfishness.
Consciousness streams back. The lion remains, standing before me. New life flows through my veins. Yet the pain continues without mitigation. Slashing. Cutting. I turn and flee in miserable anguish only to find a trail of bloody scales marking the path from which I came. He cuts again. This deeper than the last, revealing, through the layers, a first sight of human flesh.
With the realization that the only true humanness in me has been deeply concealed comes the equally important understanding that I have not yet fully understood humanness. Standing in stark contrast to the man in the garden, my eyes are opened to the horror of what I really am. The dragon that always was. The lion pounces, tearing away more scales with his teeth to reveal a white stomach hidden since the garden. A rehabilitated criminal released from life in an 8x10 cell, I am freed into a new world that I cannot yet comprehend.
Taking my first steps from the cave, I am blinded by the great light hanging in the sky. I stare in wonder at its glory, while vainly grasping for more and more. Enraptured by this beautiful orb, fear invades. Fear that it may not be there tomorrow. I gasp deep breaths of air knowing that just as it is given so it can be taken away. Contrasting the stale, dead air of the cave, this is the air of freedom. Freedom from the shadows they think are reality in the depths of the cave I once called home. The cave I once called truth and beauty and reality. This new experience of true reality informs my soul. Never again will I trust the shadows of the cave.
I stand now before the lion, ready. Ready to learn to endure the pain. Yet, strangely, his eyes betray a smile. Another layer of truth penetrates my understanding as I recognize the deep warmth and love that greet me from the lion's eyes. Perhaps, on this side of eternity, I will never understand, or even experience, the full depths of the way he looks at me. But it is here, in his loving gaze, that I may share his joy. Not the smirk of an enemy pleasuring in my pain. But the smile of a wise father as his teary-eyed son, knees bloodied, falls into his arms. A knowing smile, he is well aware that the pain will make me a man.
He has more work to do. Tomorrow may yet be more painful than today. There are many scales that still remain. Lust of the eyes. Lust of the flesh. Pride of life. Weak and unworthy pleasures that bear empty promises of escape from the pain. Pleasures I formerly loved. Their power utterly confounded at the lion's bidding.
His pleasure is devastating. He is not safe, but he is good.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wandering Souls
My own sitting room. The perimeter lined with plush, African style couches, or frosh. The centerpiece, a cheaply made wooden table. Not much to look at, it provides enough space to entertain dinner guests. Dinner guests that often inquire about the pieces of decorations hanging from the ceiling. The last remnants of a child's one year birthday. The child of the previous tenants; the same child that now screams for attention in the once-empty apartment above.
Directly adjacent to the sitting room is the kitchen. Not just a kitchen, but my kitchen. This small space affords ample room for Luke and I to share cooking and cleaning duties. The small cupboards overflowing with everything we need to host up to eight friends any given night. I find myself fully content with a working stove, semi-working oven, and enough counter space to roll out egg noodles for two whole lasagna dishes.
Between the three of us we share two bedrooms. Space is tight, but none of us own much more than we need. The small bathroom contains a toilet, small shower, and sink.
It is here, finally, that I am home.
Home is an elusive concept. After four years of college, I was ready to move on. As much as I loved the freshman dorm that I served as a senior, this was no longer my place. Two years later, I find myself making my last of 13 moves spanning six different cities.
This lengthy transitional period began with a short-term marketing job by which I passed the time prior to the start of seminary. At 21 and single, I quickly discovered that I simply did not fit in with married, late-twenty-somethings in my new home. Too old for college. Too young for seminary. For two semesters I struggled to adapt. I struggled to make friends.
But I did not struggle to say goodbye again. It was at this time that a small church plant in Kansas offered me a home. My first official internship, and with a bonafide southern baptist church. This exciting new stage of life lasted two months, just long enough for them to decide that I did not belong there either. Shamed and now unemployed, I was told by the pastor to leave not only the church, but the city as well.
And go where?
Peter addresses his first letter to "those who reside as aliens, scattered throughout [the Roman world]." This was me. I was an alien in this world. This is how I identified myself. A theme throughout the Scriptures, God's people are continually moving toward the land, but not yet arriving. Even when Israel secured their earthly promised land, this land is but a picture of the greater for which it is relegated to the service of a mere symbol. Separate. Estranged. A novel concept. But one too easily romanticized.
For me, these had become convenient words to take the edge off the pain. But what was the truth?
A damaged wall, I putty countless holes and paint over the scars with a fresh coat. To the naked eye, I stand strong. A fresh and new look, my outer coat will last for some time. But, on the inside, the structural integrity is weak. The wall less functional to perform its duties of carrying the heavy weights and burdens placed upon it. With time and continued patch jobs, the wall will crumble.
What is the truth concerning Peter's scattered aliens?
Peter continues. They are scattered "according to the foreknowledge of God." They are scattered "by the sanctifying work of the Spirit." And they are scattered "in order to obey Jesus Christ, being sprinkled with His blood." What is in view here are not my insecurities, my instability, my scars, nor my seeming inability to maintain relationships. Rather, God scatters me with the intent that I will agree with Jesus when He says, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Obedience is in view.
My task is to be obedient, He has done the rest. He gives everything necessary to serve His kingdom by means of "His great mercy [that] has caused us to be born again to a living hope." He has provided rest that awaits the obedient soul; "an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you." And He has provided all the protection necessary to perform the task, protection "by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time."
The truth is that I am a stranger, set apart to obedience. It is not that I do not fit in or I do not belong. Sometimes I feel that way. Sometimes life is difficult. The temptation is to walk away. To move on. To be the wrong kind of wanderer.
Peter continues, calling brothers to rejoice, "even though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials." Trials prove faith, he says, faith "being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." To escape the pain is also to escape the blessings that gush from the open wound as it painfully heals.
C.S. Lewis, after the passing of his wife, wrote many notes in his journal later compiled under the name "A Grief Observed". He writes that God is like "a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless."
Today I am home. For now, at least, I feel like I belong. A day will come again when my emotions deceive me. Perhaps tomorrow the cares of the world will choke out the truth. But truth is truth even when I don't think, or even feel like, it is. And the truth is that there is a higher calling beyond me, one to obedience. He is greater than my insecurities and struggles and His blood has secured undeserved redemption.
"If you address as Father the One who impartially judges according to each one's work, conduct yourselves in fear during the time of your stay on earth; knowing that you were not redeemed with perishable things like silver or gold from your futile way of life inherited from your forefathers, but with precious blood, as of a lamb unblemished and spotless, the blood of Christ."
My stay on earth is short. The easy option would be to plant roots, get comfortable, and gather all I can before the clock ticks down. It is the obedient life that seeks to discover the Father's will. That will foreknown before the foundations of the world this soul now wanders. The obedient life scatters to the holy place of separation wrought by the work of the Spirit. This obedient life follows Jesus closely wherever He may lead.
Directly adjacent to the sitting room is the kitchen. Not just a kitchen, but my kitchen. This small space affords ample room for Luke and I to share cooking and cleaning duties. The small cupboards overflowing with everything we need to host up to eight friends any given night. I find myself fully content with a working stove, semi-working oven, and enough counter space to roll out egg noodles for two whole lasagna dishes.
Between the three of us we share two bedrooms. Space is tight, but none of us own much more than we need. The small bathroom contains a toilet, small shower, and sink.
It is here, finally, that I am home.
Home is an elusive concept. After four years of college, I was ready to move on. As much as I loved the freshman dorm that I served as a senior, this was no longer my place. Two years later, I find myself making my last of 13 moves spanning six different cities.
This lengthy transitional period began with a short-term marketing job by which I passed the time prior to the start of seminary. At 21 and single, I quickly discovered that I simply did not fit in with married, late-twenty-somethings in my new home. Too old for college. Too young for seminary. For two semesters I struggled to adapt. I struggled to make friends.
But I did not struggle to say goodbye again. It was at this time that a small church plant in Kansas offered me a home. My first official internship, and with a bonafide southern baptist church. This exciting new stage of life lasted two months, just long enough for them to decide that I did not belong there either. Shamed and now unemployed, I was told by the pastor to leave not only the church, but the city as well.
And go where?
Peter addresses his first letter to "those who reside as aliens, scattered throughout [the Roman world]." This was me. I was an alien in this world. This is how I identified myself. A theme throughout the Scriptures, God's people are continually moving toward the land, but not yet arriving. Even when Israel secured their earthly promised land, this land is but a picture of the greater for which it is relegated to the service of a mere symbol. Separate. Estranged. A novel concept. But one too easily romanticized.
For me, these had become convenient words to take the edge off the pain. But what was the truth?
A damaged wall, I putty countless holes and paint over the scars with a fresh coat. To the naked eye, I stand strong. A fresh and new look, my outer coat will last for some time. But, on the inside, the structural integrity is weak. The wall less functional to perform its duties of carrying the heavy weights and burdens placed upon it. With time and continued patch jobs, the wall will crumble.
What is the truth concerning Peter's scattered aliens?
Peter continues. They are scattered "according to the foreknowledge of God." They are scattered "by the sanctifying work of the Spirit." And they are scattered "in order to obey Jesus Christ, being sprinkled with His blood." What is in view here are not my insecurities, my instability, my scars, nor my seeming inability to maintain relationships. Rather, God scatters me with the intent that I will agree with Jesus when He says, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Obedience is in view.
My task is to be obedient, He has done the rest. He gives everything necessary to serve His kingdom by means of "His great mercy [that] has caused us to be born again to a living hope." He has provided rest that awaits the obedient soul; "an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you." And He has provided all the protection necessary to perform the task, protection "by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time."
The truth is that I am a stranger, set apart to obedience. It is not that I do not fit in or I do not belong. Sometimes I feel that way. Sometimes life is difficult. The temptation is to walk away. To move on. To be the wrong kind of wanderer.
Peter continues, calling brothers to rejoice, "even though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials." Trials prove faith, he says, faith "being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." To escape the pain is also to escape the blessings that gush from the open wound as it painfully heals.
C.S. Lewis, after the passing of his wife, wrote many notes in his journal later compiled under the name "A Grief Observed". He writes that God is like "a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless."
Today I am home. For now, at least, I feel like I belong. A day will come again when my emotions deceive me. Perhaps tomorrow the cares of the world will choke out the truth. But truth is truth even when I don't think, or even feel like, it is. And the truth is that there is a higher calling beyond me, one to obedience. He is greater than my insecurities and struggles and His blood has secured undeserved redemption.
"If you address as Father the One who impartially judges according to each one's work, conduct yourselves in fear during the time of your stay on earth; knowing that you were not redeemed with perishable things like silver or gold from your futile way of life inherited from your forefathers, but with precious blood, as of a lamb unblemished and spotless, the blood of Christ."
I Peter 1:17-19
My stay on earth is short. The easy option would be to plant roots, get comfortable, and gather all I can before the clock ticks down. It is the obedient life that seeks to discover the Father's will. That will foreknown before the foundations of the world this soul now wanders. The obedient life scatters to the holy place of separation wrought by the work of the Spirit. This obedient life follows Jesus closely wherever He may lead.
Friday, March 19, 2010
I am NOT a Poet, But...
I am the servant running to Elisha,
"Alas my master! What shall we do?"
Fear invades when I have forgotten
that there is nothing under the sun new.
From Aram come legions of troops
poised to take my life and liberty,
"O Lord," prays the master, Elisha,
"open his eyes that he may see."
Chariots of fire arrest my gaze
consuming the mountainside,
A great and glorious army
ready to uphold the will of Adonai.
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
"The Lord loves justice and
forsakes not His godly ones."
Each day they are stolen away,
husbands from wives, fathers from sons.
A battle against flesh and blood
we do not fight,
but whispers of the enemy
that deceive in the night
On the battlefield in Eden,
his first victory won,
but for the prize of the upward goal
we continually press on
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
Anger rises at the thought
of good men waiting in jail,
fear at others deported
from which there is no bail.
Intimidation, the beast that
prevents our friends from gathering,
The neck of Christianity
the authorities seek to wring.
Even now it is for Jesus,
to be like him I yet fight,
to have compassion, grace, love
and to eternally shine my light,
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
"Alas my master! What shall we do?"
Fear invades when I have forgotten
that there is nothing under the sun new.
From Aram come legions of troops
poised to take my life and liberty,
"O Lord," prays the master, Elisha,
"open his eyes that he may see."
Chariots of fire arrest my gaze
consuming the mountainside,
A great and glorious army
ready to uphold the will of Adonai.
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
"The Lord loves justice and
forsakes not His godly ones."
Each day they are stolen away,
husbands from wives, fathers from sons.
A battle against flesh and blood
we do not fight,
but whispers of the enemy
that deceive in the night
On the battlefield in Eden,
his first victory won,
but for the prize of the upward goal
we continually press on
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
Anger rises at the thought
of good men waiting in jail,
fear at others deported
from which there is no bail.
Intimidation, the beast that
prevents our friends from gathering,
The neck of Christianity
the authorities seek to wring.
Even now it is for Jesus,
to be like him I yet fight,
to have compassion, grace, love
and to eternally shine my light,
The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Clean
A crowd had formed. Over the years, he could recall only a handful of times people had gathered this close to his home. When people came outside the city en masse the result was often unpleasant. Still groggy, he jumped to his feet nearly losing balance at the wave of pain that swept over his body. Grabbing an extra tunic, his staff, and sandals, he moved to the small opening of his makeshift tent to spy the coming mob.
Led by a man whom he had never seen, the mob was moving to the large hill beyond the slums where he had made his home. At the sight of this man his anxiety was slightly mitigated, enough, at least, that he could put aside his provisions for escape. He knew well that not long into his escape even this small weight would have proven too much. Since that day, his strength was ever decreasing. The pain of waking every morning was, at times, unbearable. He thought of suicide. Most days this was a passing thought. Others, more. But he could never follow through. There was always this precarious hope that he could not quite place.
The leader ascended the hill. Young and strong, this man moved swiftly. Atop the hill, the man sat, legs crossed, to survey the crowd closing in around him. Eased by the calm of the leader, he left the entrance of the tent making his way for the hill.
Walking gingerly toward the crowd, his pain reminded him, yet again, of the constant inner struggle. What of this hope? As far as he was concerned, hope was nothing more than a burden to bear. Hope remained the only barrier preventing him from ending his pain. Yet, somehow deep within him, he knew there was purpose. Not only general purpose in life, but specific purpose for him. No one else would believe it, and he dare not tell a soul, but he sensed purpose in the midst of this bleak existence. Purpose which he railed against. It was this ambiguous purpose for which he yet stumbled through what was left of his miserable life.
By the time he reached the hill, the majority of the crowd had already been seated. Looking for a soft place to sit, his legs buckled sending him to the ground with a painful thud. Pain fired through every bone and joint of his body forcing tears to his eyes. The pain was too much. Attempting to move himself enough to sit, he labored to first lift his head, unaware of the spectacle he had made. He was met with looks of anger and disgust. Their disdainful eyes penetrated to the very depths of his heart, a pain more excruciating than the white sores that covered his body.
They reminded him of her. He could never put away the bittersweet memories of his youth. She had been his dayspring. There, in the marketplace where he first looked upon her, the first beams of sunlight had wakened his world. Beams pregnant with the full day's brilliance that, with time, would lift the shadows to reveal all the beauty and wonder that life could be. He had wasted no time in speaking with her parents and beginning the wonderful journey of engagement. Nothing in life had been more invigorating, more inspiring than the love they shared. A love that nothing, he thought, could ever separate. She was the first. And many more followed with the pronouncement of unclean. In the blink of an eye, the entire world had turned against him.
And now, he crawled under the weight of their stares. They knew he did not belong here. But so did he. Their attention was soon captured by the man now standing at the crest of the hill. Adjusting himself, he was caught with surprise at the eloquence and force of the man's words. Something about the man's speech seemed to tug at the concealed hope inside him. The man spoke with authority, unlike the scribes and pharisees who had beaten him in the streets. What this man said ran counter-intuitive to everything they taught.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you."
"Do not think that I came to abolish the Law and the Prophets; I did not come to abolish but to fulfill."
He was no fool. For years he had been afforded many hours to himself for his own personal study. He learned long ago the cruelty of the righteous, and instead sought to find productivity in his solace. He knew the holy writings well, especially Leviticus. After all, Leviticus spoke directly to him. For years he had slowly become convinced that the scribes and pharisees were wrong. The segregation was wrong. The excommunication that he undeservedly suffered must have been an abomination to a just God. Perhaps he was a heretic, but the holy writings seemed to major on the doctrine of justice. Leviticus was not written for the purpose of which it was now used.
"For I say to you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven."
"You have heard the ancients were told, 'You shall not commit murder.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the courts."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery'; but I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."
"Ask, and it will be given to you."
The man spoke to the crowd for hours. The sensation was small at first, but by the end of the sermon, his heart burned within him. His whole life seemed to find its culmination in this one moment. Everything had brought him here. The pain of being a spectacle for everyone who saw him. The physical anguish he had endured for years. The fear. The sorrow. The precarious hope that whispered to him of purpose. This hope that prevented him from killing himself.
Unaware until this point, he lay, face down in the grass, sobbing. He could not be sure how long he had been in this position, yet he remained. He believed every word. This man, this rabbi, understood the Law. This man understood the Prophets. This man understood him. A hush fell among the crowd around him. He looked to find the man standing before him. Gazing up into the teacher's eyes, he found everything he could ever need. Then, weakly, "Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean."
The man smiled. Love permeated the man's entire being. This love, more real than any he had ever experienced. In this man's eyes was the hope for which he had long waited. Precarious. He now understood why this hope had always transcended his understanding. This hope did not find its source in him. It was not his. This hope could only be found in the Creator of everything. The One that now stood before him.
This Man, his Lord, now did the unthinkable. Before he could understand, the Man reached out to hold his face in His hand. A touch. Only one touch. He had longed for the warm touch of another human. A touch of love. A touch of friendship. A touch of camaraderie. The touch was all this and more. Jesus looked into his eyes and spoke words of power, "I am willing, be cleansed."
And it was so.
In this African culture, ritual washing is essential. The people are required to go five times each day to pray. If the man is unclean, he must wash his head, hands, arms, and private areas three times before prayer. If a man relieves himself, he is unclean. If a man consumes anything forbidden, he is unclean. If a man touches someone unclean, he is unclean. For this reason, it is important to avoid becoming unclean.
This can often be used as an excuse to treat people cruelly or to avoid them altogether. The other day, a beggar walked into a small shop where I sat eating a sandwich. Immediately a customer jumped from his seat, grabbed the beggar, and threw him out of the shop. People will give the required alms to the sick and poor on the street, but will not stop to touch or talk to these. The law serves them as functional savior. And the easiest and least costly path toward fulfillment of the law serves as the new righteousness. This is the new pharisaism.
In Matthew 8, Jesus stopped. He loved the leper. He touched the leper.
Do you love those in need enough to get your hands unclean?
Jesus did.
Led by a man whom he had never seen, the mob was moving to the large hill beyond the slums where he had made his home. At the sight of this man his anxiety was slightly mitigated, enough, at least, that he could put aside his provisions for escape. He knew well that not long into his escape even this small weight would have proven too much. Since that day, his strength was ever decreasing. The pain of waking every morning was, at times, unbearable. He thought of suicide. Most days this was a passing thought. Others, more. But he could never follow through. There was always this precarious hope that he could not quite place.
The leader ascended the hill. Young and strong, this man moved swiftly. Atop the hill, the man sat, legs crossed, to survey the crowd closing in around him. Eased by the calm of the leader, he left the entrance of the tent making his way for the hill.Walking gingerly toward the crowd, his pain reminded him, yet again, of the constant inner struggle. What of this hope? As far as he was concerned, hope was nothing more than a burden to bear. Hope remained the only barrier preventing him from ending his pain. Yet, somehow deep within him, he knew there was purpose. Not only general purpose in life, but specific purpose for him. No one else would believe it, and he dare not tell a soul, but he sensed purpose in the midst of this bleak existence. Purpose which he railed against. It was this ambiguous purpose for which he yet stumbled through what was left of his miserable life.
By the time he reached the hill, the majority of the crowd had already been seated. Looking for a soft place to sit, his legs buckled sending him to the ground with a painful thud. Pain fired through every bone and joint of his body forcing tears to his eyes. The pain was too much. Attempting to move himself enough to sit, he labored to first lift his head, unaware of the spectacle he had made. He was met with looks of anger and disgust. Their disdainful eyes penetrated to the very depths of his heart, a pain more excruciating than the white sores that covered his body.
They reminded him of her. He could never put away the bittersweet memories of his youth. She had been his dayspring. There, in the marketplace where he first looked upon her, the first beams of sunlight had wakened his world. Beams pregnant with the full day's brilliance that, with time, would lift the shadows to reveal all the beauty and wonder that life could be. He had wasted no time in speaking with her parents and beginning the wonderful journey of engagement. Nothing in life had been more invigorating, more inspiring than the love they shared. A love that nothing, he thought, could ever separate. She was the first. And many more followed with the pronouncement of unclean. In the blink of an eye, the entire world had turned against him.
And now, he crawled under the weight of their stares. They knew he did not belong here. But so did he. Their attention was soon captured by the man now standing at the crest of the hill. Adjusting himself, he was caught with surprise at the eloquence and force of the man's words. Something about the man's speech seemed to tug at the concealed hope inside him. The man spoke with authority, unlike the scribes and pharisees who had beaten him in the streets. What this man said ran counter-intuitive to everything they taught.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you."
"Do not think that I came to abolish the Law and the Prophets; I did not come to abolish but to fulfill."
He was no fool. For years he had been afforded many hours to himself for his own personal study. He learned long ago the cruelty of the righteous, and instead sought to find productivity in his solace. He knew the holy writings well, especially Leviticus. After all, Leviticus spoke directly to him. For years he had slowly become convinced that the scribes and pharisees were wrong. The segregation was wrong. The excommunication that he undeservedly suffered must have been an abomination to a just God. Perhaps he was a heretic, but the holy writings seemed to major on the doctrine of justice. Leviticus was not written for the purpose of which it was now used.
"For I say to you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven."
"You have heard the ancients were told, 'You shall not commit murder.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the courts."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery'; but I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."
"Ask, and it will be given to you."
The man spoke to the crowd for hours. The sensation was small at first, but by the end of the sermon, his heart burned within him. His whole life seemed to find its culmination in this one moment. Everything had brought him here. The pain of being a spectacle for everyone who saw him. The physical anguish he had endured for years. The fear. The sorrow. The precarious hope that whispered to him of purpose. This hope that prevented him from killing himself.
Unaware until this point, he lay, face down in the grass, sobbing. He could not be sure how long he had been in this position, yet he remained. He believed every word. This man, this rabbi, understood the Law. This man understood the Prophets. This man understood him. A hush fell among the crowd around him. He looked to find the man standing before him. Gazing up into the teacher's eyes, he found everything he could ever need. Then, weakly, "Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean."
The man smiled. Love permeated the man's entire being. This love, more real than any he had ever experienced. In this man's eyes was the hope for which he had long waited. Precarious. He now understood why this hope had always transcended his understanding. This hope did not find its source in him. It was not his. This hope could only be found in the Creator of everything. The One that now stood before him.
This Man, his Lord, now did the unthinkable. Before he could understand, the Man reached out to hold his face in His hand. A touch. Only one touch. He had longed for the warm touch of another human. A touch of love. A touch of friendship. A touch of camaraderie. The touch was all this and more. Jesus looked into his eyes and spoke words of power, "I am willing, be cleansed."
And it was so.
In this African culture, ritual washing is essential. The people are required to go five times each day to pray. If the man is unclean, he must wash his head, hands, arms, and private areas three times before prayer. If a man relieves himself, he is unclean. If a man consumes anything forbidden, he is unclean. If a man touches someone unclean, he is unclean. For this reason, it is important to avoid becoming unclean.
This can often be used as an excuse to treat people cruelly or to avoid them altogether. The other day, a beggar walked into a small shop where I sat eating a sandwich. Immediately a customer jumped from his seat, grabbed the beggar, and threw him out of the shop. People will give the required alms to the sick and poor on the street, but will not stop to touch or talk to these. The law serves them as functional savior. And the easiest and least costly path toward fulfillment of the law serves as the new righteousness. This is the new pharisaism.
In Matthew 8, Jesus stopped. He loved the leper. He touched the leper.
Do you love those in need enough to get your hands unclean?
Jesus did.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The End of Innocence (Or, Face-to-Face with Persecution)
The room was silent. Veteran friends. New friends. Families. Singles. All left speechless. The air heavy, tears came to my eyes. Pain for him. Pain for my friends who knew him. Pain at knowing I would not.
I had been safe. For two months I had learned the city, the culture, the people. My love was growing despite a rocky start. This city had become my home. These people were my people. My friends in the marketplace had come to expect me. The street guard always there waiting to talk when I come home. The hungry boys on the street knew my name and where I would be on a Saturday night. I had begun to belong. There was safety here. Nothing could harm me.
Until that moment. Now it is different. As a young child who witnesses violent crime, my world had been changed in an instant. Innocence stolen. In the world in which I now live, I am one ambush away from an all-expense-paid trip to Europe. Permanently. This is the new reality.
In the past week, there have been many friends exiled from this country. The most notable, for me, came Sunday morning with the news that our friend, Blair, had been sent home. The end of 20 years of living, serving, and loving our beautiful country. There were few friends in the north who had not been affected or known someone affected by the work of our dear friend, Blair. I saw him once, when he preached, in flawless Arabic, at the wedding of two national believers. And though I did not meet him then, I felt like I knew him from the many stories my friends have told.
We are not promised comfort.
We are not promised ease.
We are not promised tomorrow.
Augustine says it well in his book City of God. In book 18, he writes:
I had been safe. For two months I had learned the city, the culture, the people. My love was growing despite a rocky start. This city had become my home. These people were my people. My friends in the marketplace had come to expect me. The street guard always there waiting to talk when I come home. The hungry boys on the street knew my name and where I would be on a Saturday night. I had begun to belong. There was safety here. Nothing could harm me.
Until that moment. Now it is different. As a young child who witnesses violent crime, my world had been changed in an instant. Innocence stolen. In the world in which I now live, I am one ambush away from an all-expense-paid trip to Europe. Permanently. This is the new reality.
In the past week, there have been many friends exiled from this country. The most notable, for me, came Sunday morning with the news that our friend, Blair, had been sent home. The end of 20 years of living, serving, and loving our beautiful country. There were few friends in the north who had not been affected or known someone affected by the work of our dear friend, Blair. I saw him once, when he preached, in flawless Arabic, at the wedding of two national believers. And though I did not meet him then, I felt like I knew him from the many stories my friends have told.
We are not promised comfort.
We are not promised ease.
We are not promised tomorrow.
Augustine says it well in his book City of God. In book 18, he writes:
"The devil, the prince of the impious city, when he stirs up his own vessels against the city of God that sojourns in this world, is permitted to do her no harm. For without doubt the divine Providence procures for her both consolation through prosperity (that she may not be broken by adversity) and trial through adversity (that she may not be corrupted by [said] prosperity); and thus each (consolation through prosperity and trial through adversity) is tempered by the other, as we recognize in the Psalms that voice which arises from no other cause, 'According to the multitude of my griefs in my heart, Thy consolations have delighted my soul.' Hence also is that saying of the apostle, 'rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.'"
Silence reigned in that meeting for some time. Finally, one by one, we all came to agreement. "We will praise God in all things."
Pray with us for Africa.
Pray with us for Africa.
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